


Matchmaker, Matchmaker

by dirtylaundry



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Drama, F/F, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, majorpropstonatasha, shedeservesashotofvodka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtylaundry/pseuds/dirtylaundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Natasha Romanov plays quasi-matchmaker, babysitter, and confidante- whilst tirelessly wondering why she subjects herself to such things without asking for some form of monetary compensation. It’s true. They owe her. Big time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_It’s sickening. That’s honestly what it really is_ , she tells herself. Shaking her thoughts away, Romanov refocuses on the black silhouette hollowed out as a generic John Doe, unfazed as the cardboard target makes swift mechanical zigzags in front of her.  The movements are random, mercurial at best. On a whim, she decides to aim for the forehead and with the click of a Glock 17, a clean hole zips through the air, straight into the _squama frontalis_ -if only it had one. She’s satisfied but then her eyes slide peripherally to see a wisp of Agent Coulson at a distance behind them, watching her and Barton practice on the range.

With their backs turned, the two trained killers already know Coulson’s behind, his presence subtly made aware by soft, calculated footsteps. He only stays for a few minutes but Natasha doesn’t mind his people-gazing habit. What _does_ bother her is that Barton decides to knock out ten cardboard heads (precisely on the same area) in succession, all within a minute. It’s not the fact that Barton is displaying his impressive skills as a sniper that irritates her (she could easily pull the same moves as him, and she does just that) but the fact that he always tries to ‘impress’ his handler whenever the two men are in near proximity or together on an op. 

As usual, Coulson compliments their shots, Barton visibly preens (she could tell when his back straightens slightly), and Natasha forces herself not to roll her eyes.

Clint and his current handler have been making googley-eyes (though she would never say this outloud) for the past five excruciating years. Ever since the wayward ex-carnie fell under Coulson’s control, the chemistry between the two has been simmering to a stifling heated boil and neither of them has made a single move. Okay, they haven’t exactly made those patented puppy love glances to one another but Natasha’s fucking observant. Their acts of flirtation are blatantly obvious to her and she’s flummoxed by how no one else in the SHIELD compound sees it.

She’s more flabbergasted that the two idiots next to her don’t see it either. _I bet a cold grand that Barton doesn’t even realize how head over heels he is over the man._

These two men, one who is the head G-man of SHIELD and the other a ruthless and quick-thinking marksman, are both fucking clueless. Instead of kindling their attraction, they must have been building Mount Kilimanjaro-sized walls of self-denial to get to this point.

Natasha doesn’t think she can handle anymore of Barton’s ‘office visits via-dropping-through-air-vents,’  Coulson’s  private ‘Talk to me’s’, and their lame excuses to touch each other (Hawkeye, I know you’re not that clumsy. I’ve seen you scale the walls of Taipei 101).

Their oblivious pining is not only getting on her nerves but also making her a tad nauseous. The charged energy in the room and dancing around one another seemed cute, especially in her first few months as a level nothing SHIELD agent, but come on, this bunny slope phase been stretched to five going on six _years_. Screw fraternization policies, it’s high time they fuck like said-bunnies.

Their handler finally leaves and Barton relaxes his posture, his mood now exponentially lighter after Coulson’s routine visit. _Typical._ Reloading her gun, Natasha contemplates drop-kicking them in the head or shoving them in an isolated room so they can finally get their act together.

Her ideas graduate to more violent attempts, those that will break regulations (the kind that will infuriate her handler as well as get her ass shipped back to Russia) and she knows it.

This calls for some good ol’ fashioned matchmaking, or at least her lazy, half-assed version of it.

Taking an aim at two targets, because yes she does have a sudden urge to inflict damage on two certain individuals, she marvels at her shitty draw of cards and wonders why she immerses herself in other people’s problems. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It’s harder than she thought it would be.

Her plan of action is already set in motion but now it seems to be backpedaling. Hence, why Clint Barton is currently AWOL and probably crawling around in HQ’s dusty air vents like he always does when he wants to clear his head.

Okay, so technically the first principle of matchmaking entails a sense of chemistry between both people. Check and double check. Scratch that, triple check.

The second tenet requires both, or even one person, to acknowledge that there is something _there._

So immediately, the former sleeper agent sidles up to Barton during practice training in the gym at 0800 hours. 

She’s blocking an upper cut and then goes, “So you and Coulson?”

Clint furrows his brows and in his hesitation, she swipes a leg, pulling him to the ground. Natasha understands that she isn’t one for beating around the bush.

“What are you talking about?,” he grunts.

She’s about to nail him in the face with a fist but he dodges in time, rolling out of her reach. Suddenly, she’s pinned down to the ground. Natasha looks up at him, her wrists locked under his grip. “You like him.”

Her words seem to incense him further as he tightens his hold on her. Some bruises will definitely form later on.  “Stop fucking around.”

She resists another urge to roll her eyes, and instead glares intently at him, then drives a knee into his stomach. “I’m not joking, moron. You’ve been hung up on him for five years.” She’s standing on her feet.

Clint is torn between scoffing and groaning in pain. He rasps out,“ You’re freaking delusional.” While he’s knelt down, she’s got a foot about to break his spine but he yanks her leg and she tumbles down to the matt again.

 “Think about it. Why do you always try to show off when he’s around? Why do you nap on his couch in _his_ office? Why do you have hour-long private comms-“

He’s trying to throw punches but she keeps evading them. “That’s all speculative,” the marksman grouses. “I’m not even gay!”

She grabs his fists and manhandles him into a chokehold, her knee strategically jabbing him on a sensitive wound from the last op. “Wake up, Barton. It’s time you meet your feelings head on.”

In this position, Clint is unable to move yet something has shifted and he lets out a monotonous and detached, “Get off of me.”

She releases him and he slips away. She doesn’t know if he’s either really pissed at her for throwing that out at him or if he’s finally putting two and two together. But at least she’s implanted that seed of thought into his head.

Now if only he would just get out of the vents.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint Barton is venting in the vents.

_She’s a fucking nutjob_ , he thinks.

Barton’s wedged inside a steel vent. He’s not planning ahead, just going along with the motions until he happens to stumble upon some water cooler gossip in a room below or finds a comfortable nest.

Where did she come up with such farfetched conclusions? He knew she was a bit crazy (I mean, the woman once strangled a guy with his own intestines) but he didn’t think she was _that_ crazy.

Something about that conversation had set him off and Clint was fueled with indescribable anger. He could have laughed her off but then she kept harping and suddenly, there was a dead weight in his chest.  Also, the way in which the message was so forthright and candid unsettled him.

After aimlessly crawling for approximately half an hour, he manages to cool down. The torrent of rage subsides to a stagnant flow and Clint is calm enough to chew her words piece by piece. He assesses the abnormal patterns of sleeping on his boss’ couch (it’s soft, his hind brain defends), the pleasant chats on the private comm line (it’s just inane chatter to pass the time during a three-hour wait), and unexplainable _need_ to please Coulson (okay, that…he doesn’t understand why).

Clint tries to remember his relationship with previous handlers. If he could recall, he was pretty much a hothead agent that switched from handler to handler, each one unable to deal with his insubordination, and eventually Clint garnered an underscore ‘trouble with authority figures’ in his personnel files.

He’s trying to figure out why Coulson’s _different_ when he hears familiar footsteps underneath him and peering through slotted vents- _Fuck with a capital F_ \- he realizes he’s above Coulson’s office.

From the aerial view of his perch, he could see the gleam of Coulson’s receding hairline, a two-thirds full cup of joe, and the man’s slender fingers typing away. Usually at this point, Clint would pop open the vent grille and slide onto the weathered couch while Coulson carries on work, unflinchingly. After all these years, he has not once startled the man but Clint is still wary to believe that Coulson has the ability to foresee his impending arrival each day.

Natasha’s “You like him” sears across his brain, mentally pinning him down, and Clint stomps down on his instincts to move.

“Why aren’t you coming down?”

Clint’s heart thuds. Coulson is glued to the monitor, the keys-without rest- are tap-tapping.

_He knows?!_

Then Coulson is staring up at him, in a penetrating gaze, and Clint feels ridiculously unhinged. Never once has Coulson looked up. _His eyes are blue-grey._

The pressing of keys abruptly stops and Clint barely notices.

Coulson just gives his bland smile but this one is wrought with mirth and amusement. It sends a warm buzz through his nerves, like the after-effects of heavy whiskey licking his wounds. Clint’s heart is about to lurch through his throat and he wonders when he began to categorize those smiles.

Clint hopes to freaking God that Coulson cannot see his rising full-body blush half-hidden in the dark.  

He realizes that he should really give the man some credit (the guy is perceptive as hell) when Coulson tilts his head slightly (he looks adorable) and goes-

“You look a little red.”

Clint doesn’t even try to formulate a response. He gets the hell outta Dodge after that, continuing to elbow his way inside the shafts of SHIELD’s narrow vents. If he’s not as silent like usual, he ignores it.

Clint doesn’t process the onslaught of surfacing feelings as the pleasant buzz seems to wash up to his brain in waves, and--

 _Aw fuck._ He was going to kill Natasha.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s like someone has opened the emergency exit on a jet during turbulence and every single factoid, even minutely pertaining to Coulson, or observation Clint has unconsciously cataloged is rushing out into the open. The way he hums instead of laughs to maintain his composure. The way he’s got Captain America paraphernalia tucked inside the second drawer (he has a feeling there must be more at home base). The way he folds his hands on his stomach, reclines back on his chair, and closes his eyes for exactly twenty minutes no more no less. Clint would see the aging lines crowning his eyes, the steady inhalation-exhalation of breath, and day-old stubble.

It’s a private scene he thinks, when Coulson drops his guard around him. Only around me?, he hopes. And everything about Coulson is comforting, something he wouldn’t mind coming back to as _home_.  

Clint feels raw, exposed. He wants to blame Natasha but all she’s done was open the exit door. With his mind fixated on the Coulson channel, he forgets how to function around the other man so on autopilot, he escapes.  

He doesn’t bunk on his favorite body-molded sofa (he can’t recall when he staked the couch as his own) or elongate conversation with the man during ops (sparse words, sometimes monosyllabic).

Coulson’s aware of the distance immediately. Clint’s praying that Coulson doesn’t confront him but like always, no one seems to be fucking listening.

Clint’s about to give Natasha a few choice words and he’s anticipating a violent brawl when he notices that Coulson is heading towards him. He grits his teeth and stays fastened to the spot in the hallway.

“My office.”  

Coulson is already walking ahead, expecting Clint to trail behind him (and of course, the archer does).

They reach the head G-man’s office and Clint’s heart is pounding a mile a minute. Just as Clint takes his final step inside, Coulson slams the door shut and crowds him, both arms on either side of Clint’s head. The movement ripples the agent’s pristine suit and Clint attempts to focus on the linear folds at the elbows instead of Coulson’s face looming six centimeters away from his own.

“Look at me.”

Clint slowly slides from the wrinkled elbows to the perfectly steam-pressed tie. Reluctantly, he trails up to meet Coulson’s striking blue eyes.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

The question sounds awfully personal, as if they are in a _relationship_ and Clint is the wayward boyfriend.  He hopes the handler does not see his face heating up and tries valiantly to maintain a blank face.

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve formed a complete sentence to me. Why is that?”

Clint gulps and he swears the sound echoes throughout the room. His mind is racing. _What should I say?_ _Should I lie to him? No, Coulson could easily tell._  Before he processes his thoughts, Clint croaks, “Our work relationship is compromised, sir.” _Stupid, stupid, stupid! I am a fucking idiot._

Coulson furrows his brows. “How so?” He unconsciously backs off a few inches.

“I-I…uh,” Clint rasps out. He thinks there is a high percent chance that he will either (A) throw up or (B), faint and have Medical check up on him. There’s also something lodged permanently inside his throat.

Coulson is still staring at him, waiting patiently for an answer.

 _Aw fuck it._ Clint closes his eyes and darts up on his toes to kiss the older man. Once their lips make contact, Clint feels a jolt of electricity charging all the way to his extremities and back, a frenetic circuit working at maximum speed.

Although Clint is not at all graceful (his nose jabs against the man’s cheek), it feels _right_ , _amazing_ and Clint could definitely get comfortable with this. He presses more firmly and dares to lick the bottom of Coulson’s smooth lips. Though his heart settles down like a weighted stone when it becomes apparent that Coulson is not reciprocating.

Suddenly, the older man is cradling Clint’s head in a powerful grip and crushing their mouths together. Coulson opens his mouth and like clockwork, their tongues dance together. It’s a sensuous, erotic fight of dominance and Clint _loves_ it. He cannot help but frame his own callused hands on his handler’s face and delve deeper inside the delicious, wet cavern.

There’s a heady, dizzying cloud permeating all corners of the room and finally, there isn’t.

It dissipates as soon as Coulson breaks off contact and recoils a few steps back. The look on his face is one of fear as if he’s seen a monster.

It’s a look Clint has never seen before on the man and then in a second, it’s gone. Coulson slides on a familiar mask, using the same polite and detached voice he does with all his field agents.

“This is wrong. You are breaking at least five different fraternization policies and countless other regulations we have in place.”

Clint’s ready to protest. “Me?! You-“

“You are dismissed.” Coulson cuts him off with a glare and Clint could see sheer panic underneath. “Go.”

Clint does not need to be told twice. He’s furious and the marksman wants to punch a hole through the wall. Likewise, there’s a mixture of other emotions rising inside him-anguish, arousal, relief. Clint is in absolute turmoil and he purposely walks toward Natasha’s bedroom quarters again.

Though this time, he has a new set of words to share with her.


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha doesn’t lift her head when Clint falls silently down the vent above her bed.

She’s immersed in David’s monologue to his female caretaker. This is the point in the novel in which the main character feels emotionally naked in front of her and implies his need for her absolution.

It’s an intimate and poignant scene but Clint’s intruding voice (“Watcha reading?”) forces her to close the book. “I _was_ reading Giovanni’s Room until you came in. What do you want?” Natasha feigns impatience.

“Tasha, I need your help. I was initially going to come here to kill you for even assuming Coulson and I were in any way ‘together’…but now I think there is something there. I think I have a chance with him.”

She whips her head to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall with his calves dangling off the bed.

“Explain.”

“He led me to his office. I kissed him. He kissed _back_. Then he pulled away and told me that it ‘Never happened.’ Though, in his own words.”

Natasha wants to laugh really hard. “Well what do you expect me to do?”

Clint glares at her, irritation etched on his face. “You’re the one that started all of this! None of this would have happened if-”

“Oh come on, you’ve been hung up on him since you transferred from Sitwell’s hold.”

“How would you know? I didn’t even meet you until a year later.”

“It was obvious. You were pining after him like a lovesick girl.” Natasha didn’t mean to have that come out so harshly but she couldn’t retract her words or condescending intonation. “And now you’re both acting like куры. It’s fucking annoying.”

Of course he understands her Russian and tightens his fists. “I shouldn’t have came here for your help. You’re such a bitch!”

Natasha grits her teeth, her eyes flaring. “Then why are you here?”

Clint breathes heavily through his nostrils and leans toward her. He enunciates a livid, “Fuck. You.”

Realistically, she could break every bone in his body but her guilt (at how awry the conversation went) is restraining her.  Natasha doesn’t manage to hurl an insult, which she will regret, because as soon as she opens her mouth, Clint is retreating into the vents. He doesn’t bother closing the rectangular blackness with the grille.

The field agent returns to the dog-eared chapter, re-reading the passage. But after the third failed attempt, it is evident that the text isn't sinking in.

She knows she royally fucked everything up and angrily slams the book shut.

_Me, pairing those two together? What the hell was I thinking?_

_\-----_

The two men are back at square one. However this time around, they are _both_ walking on eggshells.

Natasha acknowledges that a certain portion of this clusterfuck is her fault.

Clint won’t stop glaring icy daggers at her in the hallways and Coulson has not been to the shooting range since the _Kiss_.

She is seriously considering an end to poking her head in her coworkers’ personal business (so what if they obstinately dodge each other for another five plus years?) but any last musings cease to a halt when Agent Coulson unexpectedly rushes -powerwalks- past her towards the direction of Fury’s office.

The prospect of a new assignment, to distract herself from the drama that defines her life, never seemed so appealing.


End file.
